Aunt Callie had the scent of the sacred feminine nature. From the palette of the North, her eyes had been painted with green towards the blue, against a background of white-blonde fluff.

At sixteen, she came as a refugee girl from faraway Russia, a few years after the Revolution. Her partner was lost later while being illegal during the Occupation. She joined the Resistance, causing sabotage, hunting down collaborators and members of the security squads, a priest who raped underage girls, a spy who was 'using his child to get ahead,' and many others who collaborated with the occupier.

Back then, my early adolescence had unsuccessfully knocked on the border post of mature age. Athens and Piraeus struggled to survive from hunger and bombings. Aunt was struggling between restraint and romantic transcendence, and ideologically, between Stalin and Trotsky.

But I was struggling in murkier waters: in my imagination, between her legs, just like that night. It didn't frighten me the beginning, as much as the continuation terrified me. A blind and desperate revolution. That spring found me unarmed and unprepared against its secret messages.

[Excerpt from the text on the back cover of the edition]